


His Name is Not His Name

by Elliott_Fletcher



Series: The Forgotten Diary of Hinata Shouyou [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Bulimia, Bullying, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kageyama is Depressed, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 08:50:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8095771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elliott_Fletcher/pseuds/Elliott_Fletcher
Summary: Kageyama exhales.The man in the mirror is not happy.





	

Amidst nondescript scribbles of volleyballs and many, many crossed out words, this list of endearing adjectives was found in Hinata Shouyou's forgotten diary beside a name not Kageyama's. (Except it _was_ his, in Hinata's eyes.)

> _**~~Vexatious~~ ** _
> 
> _**~~Provoking~~ ** _
> 
> _**~~Bothersome~~ ** _
> 
> _**~~Caustic~~ ** _
> 
> _**~~Exasperating~~ ** _
> 
> _**~~Incommodious~~ ** _
> 
> _**~~Saturnine~~ ** _
> 
> ~~**_Embarrassing_ ** ~~
> 
> ~~**_Uncomplicated_ ** ~~
> 
> ~~**_Distracting_ ** ~~
> 
> ~~**_Dumbass_ ** ~~
> 
> **_Gratifying_ **
> 
> **_Worthwhile_ **
> 
> **_Mine._ **
> 
> **_(Tobi)_ **

****

Kageyama is in the middle distance, forced between pleased laughter and heavy sobs. Tobi--that has to be him--and he likes it well enough. He pets the page with his lined palm, feeling each wrinkle under his fingertips, engraving them in his bones. 

Hinata's writing is a beautiful scrawl, looping and wide, a squatty, feminine sort, and Kageyama traces each letter with his nail, letting his eyes fall partially closed. The drying ache behind his eyes has passed, and the imminent need to cry has faded into the background, though Kageyama has never lived without it. Only when his eyes land on the marks of a green pen do they fly open. It is the same lilting scrawl, presenting itself in green ink, far left on the bottom margin. It is hidden modestly, and he did not see it the first hundred times he read the list.

He reads it now:

> **_You will not cease to be these things: not when I die, not ever. Always be mine, Tobi._ **

His name is not his name, but Hinata made it home. 

 

 

Kageyama, leaning over the toilet, hands bracing the lid, sticks two fingers down his throat. He can feel the food there, in his stomach, taunting him, swirling around nauseously. He feels the world lift from his shoulders as he throws up his lunch. 

He washes his face in the school's bathroom sink and supports himself with his elbows on the counter. His knees shake, and his head fills with static, and his heart thrums, speeding up like he has slipped down two (thousand) flights of stairs. He unfurls the note he has crumpled in his hand. It is a chicken scratch scrawl, too thin and straight, not looping or feminine in the least; the words are neither endearing nor kind. He glares to himself in the mirror as he remembers the disgusted countenance of his classmate. He swallows, thick, the residue of his stomach acid, and cups some tap water into his mouth.

The man in the mirror wears a grimace as a party mask.

The man in the mirror has eyes as dull as coal and a mouth full of acrid blood.

The man in the mirror is a child in his father's clothes.

The man in the mirror holds his heart in his hands because his chest has become a minefield, and he just does not want to _hurt_ anymore.

 

Kageyama exhales.

 

The man in the mirror is not happy.

 

He pulls his eyes away from the heavy gravity of his ghastly reflection, and looks at the note, wrinkled but flat in his palm. _Worthwhile_ , it says. Kageyama wants to snort, except he can invision Hinata's lips curling around those words, pink and bright. The sound that escapes Kageyama's lips is neither of those things: it is a heart wrenching sob.

 _Mine._  

Kageyama grips the collar of his uniform as if it were the noose strangling him, and his eyes sweep from his shoes to his sweat-matted hair. He is disappointed in himself; it is that heavy, sinking Titanic in his stomach.

 _This is what is left . . . of me._ He thinks disjointedly. He points to his heart with a sluggish hand, then lets it flatten against the rampant drum.

 _Yours_.

 


End file.
